


then you might as well live

by FacetheRavenclaw



Category: Boy Meets World
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Be patient, Best Friends to Lovers, Cory/Topanga - Freeform, Eric Matthews & Jack Hunter, Eric has an actual college arc yay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shawn Hunter & Jack Hunter - Freeform, Shawn Hunter & Jonathan Turner - Freeform, Shawn/Angela - Freeform, Slow Burn, Topanga lives in Pittsburgh, basically just teenage idiots meeting the world and learning life lessons, like serious slow burn, okay but seriously about the slow burn it takes them a whiiiiiile to get together so just like, one sided pining at first, shory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetheRavenclaw/pseuds/FacetheRavenclaw
Summary: “...It’s all gonna be over soon,” said Cory, his skin pale in the starlight.“What, high school?”“Yeah, and—everything else. Life as we know it, Shawnie. And after this all we have is...what comes next. And I don’t know what that is.”Cory fears change, Eric fears failure, and Shawn fears himself. Together, they learn about life. (A rewrite of seasons 5 through 7)
Relationships: Shawn Hunter/Cory Matthews
Comments: 50
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Latching onto an old, niche 90s show and deciding to write 3 seasons' worth of material for it? Even though no one talks about this show anymore? More likely than you think. 
> 
> But seriously, BMW is near and dear to my heart, so it was only a matter of time before this happened. I've always been tossing around a rewrite of the later seasons in my head, because I felt like there were some seriously unexplored character arcs and a lot of untapped potential that really could have elevated the later years (specifically with Cory, Shawn, and Eric -- the focus of this fic). I probably would never have written or posted anything, but a good friend I recently made over the internet was very encouraging and let me bounce a lot of ideas off her, so here we are! If you guys wanna be darlings and support her, you can [check out her ao3!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoutshonour/pseuds/scoutshonour) She has a wonderful BMW fic as well as an ongoing GMW fic that I highly recommend!
> 
> Enjoy!

What Cory hadn’t planned for was the bad signal outside, the rough crackle of static over Topanga’s familiar voice as, just beyond, the sun sank behind dark trees and cast his backyard in strange, alien shadows.

“ _Crrrr-ryyy_?” rippled crookedly over the line, like the gray echo of post-eraser pencil marks.

He hesitated.

“ _CRRR–rry_.” Again, this time louder. More indignant. Trust Topanga to dominate her way through a failing phone line.

“Sorry, it’s just––”

Just that Morgan had her friends over in the living room, giggling and squealing and munching their way through a shared bowl of popcorn as they crowded around the family television. Just that his mom and dad were bent over the kitchen table, having a hushed conversation that, apparently, could _not_ be interrupted under any circumstances. And maybe Cory wouldn’t be so bitter over that, but then he’d gone upstairs — to his _own_ room, keep in mind — where Eric had been a diva in an oversized jersey, slamming his textbook shut and griping that couldn’t Cory give him some _space_ , couldn’t he see that Eric was trying to _study_? So Cory, who _could_ see that, thank you very much, and was irritated at how proud he was, had huffed his way out to the back patio with his family’s only cordless. What luck.

“––the connection’s a little...off. I guess. But don’t worry! I can hear you well enough.” 

“ _Weeee’re_ –– _nttt_ –– _brkking up_?” 

“No, no! Everything’s fine!” Which was somewhat true. At least Feeny hadn’t crashed their date. Cory stood up from his chair and paced around, maneuvering from spot to spot in search of a better signal. “L-Let me just...uhhhh...here. Here. Try saying something.”

“ _Izz ‘ttt be-t-t-tteerr_?” asked Topanga in a garbled voice.

“Yes,” Cory lied. He hurried frantically around his cramped little yard and cast a wary eye across the fence; this felt like a prime Feeny Moment. 

There was a brief period of silence, and for a moment Cory was scared he’d lost her, but a twitch of noise and she was back. 

“ _Kindvvvvveee bzzy ‘ight nooowww, nnyway_... _may-be ssshhould––_ ” And Cory felt the next word like a grenade in his chest, ash in his lungs, so he didn’t have to hear it. “–– _reschedule_?” 

“No!” He picked up his pacing even more, hissed out a pained swear when an unusually jagged rock pierced his foot. Hopefully Topanga hadn’t heard.

“ _Crr-rrrrry_.” Steady. Measured. She had heard. 

Cory stopped and held back a sigh. Rubbed furiously at his eyes. Overhead, a dark cloud began to form, and _screw it_ , if it rained then that was just _another thing he hadn’t planned for_. If it rained, then not only had he floundered out here in nothing but his socks, but he’d also forgotten a _rain jacket_. A simple, lightweight rain jacket for a simple, cloudy evening during a simple, relaxedphone call with his girlfriend, Topanga Lawrence, whom he loved more than anything.

Huh. “Whom.” That was pretty solid grammar, and he learned it from her. He learned everything from her, really, except the stuff he learned from Shawn, and now he couldn’t even—

“ _Crrrrrr-yy_.” Admonishing, but tender. 

“I’m sorry.” He let himself sigh, just a little. “We just — I should’ve planned this better, but I’ll get it right next time, okay? How about I call you back tomorrow?” 

More garbled noise, but Cory made out the words “not tomorrow” and “plans” and “day after?” 

“Yes! Wait, no—that’s Nana Booboo’s birthday. You know, she’s like, on her third century now, so it’s a big occasion.” He concocted a laugh, which was as awkward as a tin can in a jewelry display. “Maybe, uh…”

The words “next week” crackled over the line, amid other hazy sentiments. Cory hoped it was kind, whatever she was saying.

“Yeah...yeah, fine. Talk to you then. Love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

And maybe it was the power of love, or quite possibly a grief-induced psychosis, but that was the first clear sound all night. It made things easier, a second later, when he had to hang up.

 _Click_. 

A solitary figure now stood limply in his yard, shivering a little as the sun continued to slip away, the sky steadily losing its brightness. Cory found it hard to identify this figure—this lonely, pathetic figure—as himself, until he remembered standing in this very spot a year ago, watching Topanga leave for the first time. Or again a month later, when she’d come back for a visit and they’d spent all weekend in each other’s orbit, non-stop talking and catching up and hugging and kissing and holding hands. Again, four months later, when they’d gone out to see a movie with Shawn; she’d rested her head on Cory’s shoulder, and abruptly, a whiff of something unfamiliar. Something lemony. He’d realized she must’ve changed her perfume, and also that his popcorn was too salty, since tears were starting to sting his eyes. The film glowed distantly through a distorted, watery curtain of vision.

Then finally, a few weeks into summer, when they’d huddled close in bed and held each other like glass sculptures. They had fixed their eyes on a small crack in Cory’s ceiling, neither of them saying a word, because stop time. _Nothing happens during stop time_. _We’re just together_. 

Cory always forgot this part, but it hurt when Topanga left. 

He found himself sinking into the chair on the patio. Another glance across the fence revealed no Mr. Feeny, just an array of puffy yellow flowers and flat-faced, red blooms that Cory didn’t know the names of. A shame, really. He was willing to tank a Feeny lesson right now. Anything would beat sitting here without a hand to hold, only a phone. 

...And, speaking of the phone, it was ringing. Again. The phone in his hand trilled in loud harmony with the one just inside, yet the voice in his head rang louder still. 

_There's your second chance_ , it said. _Get it right_.

Not wasting a moment, Cory hurried inside the kitchen, where it was warm and inviting, and where the connection was at its strongest.

* * * 

Eric was not studying. 

Which, that wasn’t exactly new. It was actually kind of his thing. Goof off the night before a test, spend his time making fun of Cory or going out with the girls who didn’t care about school instead of the ones who did. Or, hey, sometimes he’d swing a study date with one of those straight-A types, but then of course he’d get distracted. No one ever actually watched the _movies_ on a _movie date_ , so why people expected to _study_ on _study dates_ was a mystery to him. 

Well, it had been a mystery. Not anymore. And _that_ was the new part.

Eric was trying to study. 

No really, he was, with books and everything. And a whole _week_ before his first Intro to Meteorology test. He was doing what the A kids did. The smart kids. So yeah, sure, meteorology may not be the most _interesting_ subject, and yeah, sure, he hadn’t truly considered the _weather_ part of weatherman, but none of that mattered. As long as he did what the A kids did, what the smart kids did, then he would get the same results as them. He would be a success. 

This all to say that it was Cory’s fault he couldn’t focus, because Cory had come _barging_ inafter Eric had read the same line for the fifth time and might actually have been starting to retain it. It was Morgan’s fault too, for having her friends over and not bothering to whisper or turn down the volume on the tv. The thermometer could also take some of the blame; three adjustments and it still refused to be anything other than too hot or too cold or, quite frankly, _disturbingly_ room temperature. Nothing could be that temperate. It made him antsy. 

But whatever. This was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was trying to be a good student now, so he would be a good student. Those were the rules. Success was so easy—why didn’t more people do it? 

_Creeeaaaak_. “Eric?” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Once more, Eric reluctantly flopped his textbook shut. No point in dog-earing the page or anything; it wasn’t like he’d made any progress. 

He turned to see his mother stepping softly into the bedroom, followed by his dad. His mom’s lips were pursed and her face was lined, but her eyes had a determined glint to them. From what Eric could gather, he was about to get a _talk_ from her. 

His dad’s countenance, meanwhile, was carefully neutral. Conclusion: this was a bad talk. One of those Time for You to Make a Life Change talks. Life thus far for him had been nothing but a series of course-corrections, so he knew the drill. Kind of exhausting, now that he’d already done all that, but so be it. 

“Eric,” Amy began, and okay, this was definitely the beginning of something, “we know you’re busy studying right now, and we’re so proud of you for that, but your father and I have something we need to discuss with you.” 

“I don’t suppose it can wait...?” He looked at his dad expectantly. 

Alan opened his mouth, but Amy beat him with, “No. It can’t.” 

“Right, then.” Eric turned from his desk, resigning himself to the reality that absolutely no work was getting done tonight, and casually tossed his hands behind his head. He met his parents with a disarming smile. “Mommy. Daddy. What can I do ya for?” 

“Eric, sweetie, you know we love you, but we think it’s time for you to move out. Get some independence.” 

Eric blinked. Stared at his mom. Looked over at his dad. Then laughed. 

“But I can’t,” he said, a bemused smile screwed on his face. “I missed the deadline, remember? Tried fixing it, no can do. So I’ve gotta stay here for the semester. I already told you that.”

“You did,” said Amy, “and we’re not saying you need to stay on campus. There are plenty of apartments for rent near Pennbrook.”

Apartments. Eric’s mind buzzed. Suddenly the temperature in here felt fine. 

“Tomorrow you can start looking,” his mom was saying. “You can stay here until you’ve found a place, but don’t take advantage of that. We’re trusting that we won’t have to give you a deadline, but we will if we have to. And don’t room with just anyone; make sure they’re safe to be around. Try to meet with them beforehand and get to know them. There may even be some kids in one of your classes looking for a roommate, so ask around.” 

Words. Lots of words. Words that wouldn’t go in, that he wasn’t retaining, just like the ones in his textbook. 

“But…” His eyes darted around the room, looking for anywhere to land. “I’m in college now. I—I _did_ it. And now you’re kicking me out?”

“Yes.”

Eric’s eyes shot to his father, who had spoken for the first time. His face had gone from neutral to stern, and he met Eric’s gaze unflinchingly. 

“You’re in college now, son,” he said. “You did it. And now you have to do it again.” Alan rubbed at his temple, and Eric wondered why he was looking so drained, so worn down, when he wasn’t the one who suddenly had to move out. “Eric, life never lets you _stop_ doing it.”

“But—”

“Find an apartment. Move out.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can,” said Amy. “We know you can.” 

And then they left. 

* * * 

It was second nature for Shawn, wandering through the woods surrounding his old trailer park, navigating the wild brush, the thorns and the rocks, the jagged branches and scattered litter. Thing was, no one actually cared about litter at the Pink Flamingo Trailer Park, because it seemed like the place trash was supposed to go. Dirtying up a nice park or pristine library was one thing, but you couldn’t exactly dirty up dirt. It was like complaining that there were too many flies at a dumpster. Here, the trash itself was the nature, and Shawn was one with it, so...wait, crap, did that make him a fly?

“ _Shawnie_ …” 

Deftly avoiding a knife that someone had just...left out here, for some reason, Shawn turned to find that Cory had fallen behind, and was now standing rigidly in a patch of darkness beneath the tall trees. He was staring nervously at the hazardous forest floor, as if one wrong step would reserve his spot in the ER. 

Of course. Cory had never been one with the nature of trash. His inner peace came from picket fences and indoor plumbing. A comfortable twenty bucks stashed in his pocket. 

“Cor, why did you even come if you were gonna freak out?” 

“Because you asked!” Cory squeaked in a high, strained voice. A wasp buzzed by, and he whimpered. 

And, again, of course. Shawn shouldn’t have bothered asking. Shaking his head with a fond smile, he made his way over to Cory, who wordlessly extended his hand. Shawn took it, and guided him through the shadows. 

“I do have a girlfriend, you know,” Cory joked as they remained hand in hand.

“Yes, you do,” said Shawn. “Naughty, _naughty_ little Cory. You dog.” 

“I thought I was a pig.” 

“Well, I’m a homewrecker. I don’t have a right to call you that.” 

Cory laughed, and _good_. It was good that he could laugh. 

Shawn knew perfectly well that Cory should be a wreck tonight, because Cory was here with him. He wasn’t at home for his coveted phone date with Topanga, the first they’d been able to schedule since her family had returned from that horrible rainforest, the one with no service. He should be on the phone with her right now—scratch that, he should be _with_ her right now—but, no. He was here with Shawn.

This meant, somehow, that Cory’s first conversation with Topanga in _months_ had fallen through. When he had dialed Cory’s number on a dumb, flailing whim, Shawn had never expected to get what he was hoping for. He had never wanted to, either, if it meant Cory lost out on his own wishes. Shawn could deal with disappointment, but Cory shouldn’t have to. He didn’t deserve it. Neither did Topanga.

The universe seemed to have forgotten who Cory and Topanga were. What it owed them for believing in it. 

Eventually, Cory and Shawn broke out of the trees. Ahead of them sat uneven rows of trailers across a stretch of dirt and dust. Home sweet home.

“Shawn. _Shawnie_. Look up!” 

Confused, Shawn followed Cory’s gaze, traced it all the way up to a clear night sky that was dipped in navy and studded with stars. Earlier, dark clouds had smudged the air, hinting at rain, but now the sky was spotless and bright. He squinted and saw the thin curve of the moon, a solitary bird gliding past. 

There was a warm pressure as Cory squeezed his hand. “Quite the view, ain’t it?” 

“I thought you hated this place,” said Shawn, still looking up.

Cory shook his head. “Nope. I hate the dark, and that’s not specific to here.” 

Shawn shrugged and kept staring. Around them, the cicadas started to sing. 

“Don’t you ever wish,” said Cory thoughtfully, after a moment had passed, “that you could get a little closer? Like, you could actually reach the sky? And nothing bad would happen ever again, because you’d be away from all the bad things. It would just be you, your friends, and the stars….”

That was...too poetic, coming from Cory. A concerned Shawn tried to meet his eyes, but for once, Cory wouldn’t let him. Shawn’s mind tangled up in knots, wondering what to do. How he could make it better. All he knew was that, if Cory wanted to reach the sky, then he should be able to reach the sky.

Ah. There was an idea. A pretty good one, too, considering the scrambled, twisted brain that had produced it.

“Well, then let’s make it happen,” said Shawn decisively, and Cory gave a startled yelp as Shawn dragged him toward the trailers.

* * * 

As it turned out, climbing to the top of Shawn’s trailer wasn’t difficult at all. It had been simple, really. There he and Cory were, and Shawn took a moment to congratulate himself on the whole arrangement. Yeah, stargazing wasn’t normally his thing, but he could do it for his best buddy. Nice things were for nice people, like Cory, and it was Shawn’s job to get him there.

They sat on the rooftop for a long time, their feet dangling over its side, their faces lit by the stars high above. Occasionally, their shoulders would brush, and Shawn would feel the smallest tickle of warmth. A weird little instinct told him to lean into it, but he ignored it. Instead, he enjoyed the moment with his friend. 

Periodically, said friend would send him a careful, surreptitious glance. Shawn knew what that meant, what Cory was asking without asking. _Do you want to talk about it?_

And every time, Shawn would ignore this glance. _No_. 

Cory would nod to himself and look away, until he decided to try again. Shawn appreciated that, for all his friend’s pushiness, Cory never once forced him to talk about the family stuff. 

Stuff like his mom’s strange behavior all day that day, as she whispered phrases to herself that Shawn didn’t understand. Sometimes she would amble over to kiss his forehead or hug him, hug him _tight_ , but then she would withdraw back into herself all over again. There was a constant tremor in her hands, a harried nature to her movements as she busied around the house. Trailing behind awkwardly, Shawn tried reasoning with her gently, which didn’t work. She only burst into tears, and of course that irritated Chet. 

“ _Now Virna, we’ve got a boy to take care of, and how are we supposed to do that if you keep flyin’ off into your fits of hysteria_?” 

That didn’t work either. So she took off. His dad, red-faced and clutching at his chest, stumbled off into the night, out of Shawn’s line of sight and without a word as to where he was going. Most likely, in search of a beer to cure his heart attack. 

So. Shawn had the trailer to himself tonight. _Great_ , he’d thought. _Sleepover_. And so, momentarily forgetting about the Topanga phone date thing, he’d called Cory up to spend the night. Nothing more to it than that. 

His shoulder brushed Cory’s again, and there again was that touch of warmth. Looking down, Shawn saw that their shadows were touching. He caught himself before he leaned any closer. 

Cory eventually broke the silence. “So, Shawnie, senior year starts next week. We’re officially on the road to graduation. The final stretch.” 

“And we get to walk down the senior hall,” added Shawn, which they both took a moment to giggle excitedly over. Give him a break; it _was_ pretty cool.

“Don’t forget,” said Cory through the giggling, “that it’s also the last year we have to be up at eight in the morning.” 

Shawn nodded. “And the last time we have to eat crappy cafeteria food.”

“No more getting shoved in the hall.” 

“No more loud, ringing bell reminding us we’re late.” 

“No more lugging our books around!” 

“No more asking _permission_ to go to the bathroom!”

Cory paused. “Actually,” he said, “I appreciate the structure there.”

“Makes sense,” said Shawn immediately. 

“But—” Cory grabbed his shoulder and shook it eagerly. “—it’s also our last round with Feeny, Shawn!” 

They smirked mischievously at this. “And neither of us will miss him,” said Shawn.

“Nope!” Cory agreed, and they both knew they were lying. The duo enjoyed another moment of childish giggling.

But after that moment, Cory’s grin wavered, and his hand fell away. A mosquito flew near his exposed skin, and Shawn batted it off. Cory didn’t even notice.

“Hey.” He poked Cory in the arm. “What’s up?” 

Fireflies were beginning to emerge around them, attracted to the warm, humid night. They danced around Shawn’s dirty old trailer park, lighting up the place like a festival, and Cory reached out as if to catch one. His twinkling eyes mirrored their shine, and Shawn felt an inexplicable pang in his chest.

“...It’s all gonna be over soon,” said Cory, his skin pale in the starlight.

“What, high school?”

“Yeah, and—everything else. Life as we know it, Shawnie. And after this all we have is...what comes next. And I don’t know what that _is_.” He clutched his head, running his hand through black curls that wouldn’t move.

Shawn frowned suspiciously. “...Is this about Topanga?”

Cory shrugged. Fidgeted. His feet swung rapidly back and forth over the side of the roof. “Yes. No. Sort of?” A groan, and then he plopped his head into the crook of Shawn’s neck; it was as if the fireflies all around them were now shining brilliantly underneath Shawn's skin, but he didn't pay it much attention. That was just how it felt when Cory touched him lately.

“I don’t understand _anything_ , Shawn.”

This was nothing new. Cory had always been afraid of change, but Shawn had never seen it so severe, and he didn’t really know what to say. His own life was always changing, the only constants being his best friend and about five bucks to his name, so uncertainty was just sort of a thing that happened to him. He was one of those people.

But Cory wasn’t.

“Look, Cor—” He wrapped Cory up in a one-armed hug, giving him a gentle little shake. “—I don’t know what happens next, okay? But I do know you get a good life. It’s who you are.” 

Cory looked up at Shawn with watery, puppy-dog eyes. Weirdly adorable. “You think?” 

“I know.” Shawn flicked another bug away from Cory, and it bit him instead. “Now come on; a whole five inch-wide trailer to ourselves, and we’re out here? Wasted potential, man, I’m tellin’ ya.” 

Cory laughed weakly, but he nodded. “Can’t argue with that.” 

Pleased that they’d made some progress, Shawn leapt off the roof before helping Cory down, and together, the two went inside. Once it got late enough, they gathered all the blankets they could find around the trailer and bundled up on Shawn's beat-up mattress, the distant sounds of highway cars and forest crickets lulling them to sleep. 

For a split second, just as sleep was beginning to put him under, Cory’s question wormed its way into Shawn’s mind. _What happens next_? 

But then he rolled over and shut his eyes, because really, he didn’t care what happened next. Next only mattered for people like Cory, and that was something Shawn could count on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers Cory was looking at were yellow chrysanthemums and zinnias, for any of y'all who care about flower language. Personally, I got way too neurotic about it when trying to write the scene, and that's part of the reason I am so horrible with updates.
> 
> Please feel free to comment with any thoughts, and thank you for reading! Pretty sure I could bond with anyone who reads BMW fic :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone; here I am, back with another chapter! I want to thank everyone who left kudos and commented on the last chapter, and for those of you who commented, I'm about to go through and reply to all those as soon as I upload this, so be on the look out! I'm so excited that there was actually interest in this! 
> 
> As for this chapter itself...kinda rough, not gonna lie. At least, it was rough for me to write. The scenes in my head just weren't translating very well, unfortunately. But that said, I do hope all of you enjoy it, and if you have any suggestions, feel free to let me know! 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! :)

There he’d been, blissfully adrift in his fantasy of a tux-wearing Feeny serving him milkshakes on silver dishes, stunning women feeding him and Cory grapes, fanning the two as they reclined on soft sheets and pillows. Streamers and heart-shaped balloons were everywhere (for Cory), and Shawn’s Spanish teacher was a professional masseuse, and _oh_ , all that tension disappearing...and look, Cory had his arm tossed around Topanga….

Then a bell ringing. Then a voice speaking Topanganese in his ear, hissing something about _destructive, gender biased thinking…_. _don’t judge, Topanga. At least I gave you Cory…._

The bell rang again. Shawn shook himself. Looked around and saw gray floors. Beige lockers. A few posters taped up about—wait, nope, interest gone. Nothing retained. He noticed one about poetry because of the cute, curly-haired girl hanging it up. 

With its muted colors, sparse decorations, and sleepy students who could probably only sputter two sentences before running out of lines, the senior hall was far from the celebratory road to graduation of Shawn’s dreams. More than anything, it resembled the grainy set of a low budget, coming of age sitcom, and frankly, Shawn had seen better. 

“Pretty much what I pictured,” Cory muttered at his side, face pinched in an easy resignation. Mundanity was his oldest friend besides Shawn and his oldest foe besides Pittsburgh. 

“Same here,” Shawn said, pouting slightly when poetry girl left for class. So much for getting her number.

“Lots of college posters. Look at all those deadlines….”

“Oh, yeah. Right. But look—” Shawn pointed to a flare of bright blue leather. “—a couch!” 

“Oooooh.” There was a newfound shine to Cory’s eyes. He wiggled his eyebrows at Shawn. “Hey, hey, hey. _Let’s sit on it_.” 

Shawn bit down on his lips as, regardless, a smirk curled past his defenses. He opened his mouth stupidly to say _yes_ , they absolutely should sit on that couch, because _obviously_ that would elevate their senior experience to levels untold, when—

“If you’re looking for somewhere to sit, might I recommend one of the seats in my classroom? They offer an unencumbered view of the chalkboard, and of course yours truly.” 

Mr. Feeny stood with his hands clasped in front of him in the doorway to his classroom, which branched off the senior hall. With one dour eyebrow raised and not a spot of lint on his dark gray blazer, it was as if someone had told Feeny that it was Halloween and he needed to go as himself—same as ever.

This meant, so far, that senior year offered a dreary hall, a Feeny, and a couch. Shawn wondered if he could run off with the couch and snatch his diploma on the way out. 

“Well, Mr. Feeny....” said Cory, and Shawn’s Ride or Die Even If It’s Dumb senses started tingling. “We may have to stick with the couch. Looks like it’s filling up in there pretty fast!” 

“ _Heck yeah, it is!_ ” Shawn proclaimed accusingly, swinging a jaunty arm in the direction of the classroom. Cory turned and gave the slightest twitch of his head. _Not yet_. 

Okay. So. Maybe a little preemptive there. Shawn dialed it back. 

Mr. Feeny remained unmoved by their display. “True as that may be, Messers Matthews and Hunter, it also tends to be the case when students are _late_.” He glanced around, at the suddenly empty hall. “Which, it appears, you two are. Things may be changing for you, but rest assured, the second bell will always mean you’re late for my class. _Until the end of time_.” 

“Oh. Uh, that’s very comforting.” Cory chuckled, looking abashed. “Sorry, Mr. Feeny. About being late.” 

“Yeah, sorry. Better luck next class, Feeny.” Shawn turned and made as if he was leaving, only for Cory to grab him by the arm, give the standard “he didn’t mean that” spiel to Feeny, and tug him into the classroom, to his regular back row seat. It paid to have a friend who knew when he was kidding, especially since Shawn himself didn’t always know.

Sticking some gum on the underside of his desk (territory marking), Shawn resigned himself to a typical history class. On cue, the door behind him closed, marking Feeny’s entrance. Then came the slow, purposeful footsteps across the classroom. Next should be the tiny screech of a chair sliding across the floor just in front of him.

Shawn waited, then waited longer. And longer still. He frowned and looked up. 

Cory still hadn’t taken his seat. 

“Mr. Matthews, I can assure you that you have much more difficult decisions ahead than where you’re going to sit,” said Mr. Feeny.

“Difficult decisions?” Cory echoed, and with how distant his voice sounded, it was unclear whether he was actually paying attention. He threw together a strange smile that made Shawn wince. “Not sure what you mean by that, sir. Why do they have to be difficult...?” 

Shawn craned his neck to get a better view of Cory’s face. From what he could see, his friend’s eyes were darting between the seat right in front of Shawn, where he normally sat, and the seat just beyond that, where no one normally sat. Except Topanga. Last year. 

A beat passed. There was a newfound softness in Mr. Feeny’s voice. “Mr. Matthews, please take a seat…” 

“Yes, sir,” said Cory woodenly. “Sorry.” He sat down. Some random guy stole Topanga’s old seat, and Shawn wanted to throttle him when he turned around and asked Cory for a pencil. Cory sighed and gave him one.

Class commenced. Mr. Feeny started on whatever it was in his lesson plan, something about _last year to make high school count_ and _colleges_ and _resume_ and _my door is always open if you need any advice_. Several kids raised their hands, and Feeny answered each of their questions in turn. This prompted more questions, more answers, an entire back and forth about whatever, who cares, Cory’s posture is growing stiffer and stiffer _is something wrong?_

“Hey, Cor.” Shawn leaned over his desk and whispered directly into Cory’s ear, not caring that his breath was probably rancid from a morning without brushing. Cory wouldn’t mind, or if he did, Shawn carried mints. Professional kisser’s courtesy. “You okay?” 

“Sure I am,” Cory whispered back, tilting around to face Shawn. Their fingers brushed, and Cory’s own breath carried the scent of home-cooked eggs. “It’s just—”

The same chair-robbing pencil-hogger from before raised his hand and asked about the application process. Mr. Feeny gave what was probably a very detailed answer.

Cory frowned, a crease curdling his forehead. “—This is...a weird year.” He turned back around, whipped out a pencil, and tapped a nervous rhythm on his desk, eyes fixed vacantly ahead. Shawn was left with nothing but Cory’s rigid spine, his tightly hunched shoulders. 

Well then. 

Along with the beige lockers and the gray floor, senior year now offered Shawn the hunched over figure of his best friend. An anxiously tapping pencil. No one to whisper to when Feeny was trying to catch his eye, like now, as he said something about financial aid. Another nervous pencil tap from Cory.

Somehow, thought Shawn, the couch wasn’t cutting it anymore. 

* * * 

College. 

College on posters. College in the hushed conversations of every kid in the senior class. College as the subject of Mr. Feeny’s first class, when he was supposed to be going over the syllabus. College as the subject of _Mr. Turner’s_ first class, and again, _what about the syllabus?_ College applications, so write down those deadlines. Colleges with honors colleges, so build your resume. College fair day, in a week, so prepare some questions. Colleges look at _this_ , didn’t you know, and colleges look at _that_ , and have you taken the SAT in a while? Be sure to meet with your guidance counselor. No, she’s busy then. Another time. 

It had been a long day for Cory, and it was only lunch. 

“Did everyone suddenly wake up and have their entire year figured out? Their entire future?” he asked, placing his tray on the cafeteria table and sliding into his seat. 

“I didn’t,” said Shawn, leaning over to take one of Cory’s chicken tenders. “My dad’s loud, gurgling snores woke me up. _And_ Little Cory. I had to rock him for two hoursbefore he settled back down. Pigs are sensitive creatures.” 

Cory handed another tender to Shawn, who stashed it in a rolled up bag he’d brought for leftovers. “So,” he said tentatively. “Your dad’s back?”

“Looks like it. Didn’t get the chance to talk.” Shawn picked up a pudding cup from his own plate and waved it in front of Cory. “Now take this pudding and get back to whining.” 

Cory obediently took the pudding and got back to whining, “I just...everyone’s doing stuff? I heard Kristi’s got an interview with Stanford. _Stanford_ , Shawn, and school just started!” 

“Huh. Kristi. Sure you didn’t just make that name up? Never heard of her.” 

“Other side of the school.” 

“Ah, say no more.” 

Cory looked away from Shawn, to all the students crowding the cafeteria. He strained his ears and caught snatches of their conversations. Some were talking about colleges they’d applied to over the summer ( _that had been an option???_ ). Some were wondering what it was like to have a roommate (that was easy — he had Shawn). Some had worked over the summer, which they thought would look good on a resume (Cory hadn’t worked. _Should he have been working?_ ). One kid was saying he wanted to take the SAT again, just to see if he could improve his math score, and _again?_ Cory had kind of had a one-and-done approach about that. Looked down, saw a fine score, moved on with his life. But apparently he should be doing more. 

“Where do I even start?” he sighed. Turning away from the overwhelming college fest, he saw that Shawn was carefully covering the potatoes on his tray with gravy, creating that mashed potato volcano Cory loved so much. 

Shawn smirked at him, shoved the tray where Cory could reach. “By eating. And appreciating my culinary gifts.” Cory grinned. 

“Thanks,” he said, tucking into his volcano. “But it doesn’t change anything.” Distantly, he heard a girl—Angela, he thought her name was—talking about maybe Northwestern for their writing program, or Pennbrook because it was closer. Cory took a bite of his potatoes, which tasted lukewarm. He’d let them sit for too long. 

Then he looked at the spare seat next to him. Imagined green apple perfume, peach-flavored lip gloss, and a confidently running soliloquy on all the ways Cory could prep for college. Telling him he had nothing to worry about. Telling him it was good that he was thinking about all this, and that he had plenty of time. Telling him they were still on for Saturday at Chubby’s. 

“...What happened to my senior year?” wondered Cory. “What’s the point of it anymore? It’s just something to get through, the gap before college. This whole year is a flashing neon sign saying ‘Hey! You’re done with this place! Your life is changing forever!’ And...yeah, that’s completely right.” He spooned up some gravy, let it drip carelessly over his (well, Shawn’s) peas. “Then they expect you to _enjoy_ it, make the _most_ of it, but _what if I don’t enjoy it_?” 

Shawn rolled his eyes, stuffed some more food in his paper bag. “You’ll enjoy it if you stop freaking out so much over enjoying it. Fries.” 

Cory absently handed Shawn some fries that he had paid extra for, then looked back to the empty seat. Caught a whiff of green apple again. He closed his eyes and conjured up the image of the chair, throning Topanga where she belonged, and of course she was glowing. Glowing like—like sunlight through a canopy. Like she was from beyond. 

Then he opened his eyes. Sighed. It was so _trying_ at times, whipping the universe back into shape when it got out of line. 

“None of this year matters,” he concluded. “I’m just supposed to power through it, make my grades, do what I can for college. But I won’t make any memories. And that _sucks_.”

“It hasn’t even been a day, darling.” 

“Exactly!”

A day, Cory knew, was more than enough time for his world to fall apart. It had happened in less. One meeting with a guidance counselor and suddenly Shawn was running away to find himself. One night at a party gone wrong and suddenly Topanga was just his friend. One evening in a tree house and suddenly Mr. Feeny wasn’t just some stern teacher next door, but a lonely man eating dinner for one, who still somehow believed in love. And Cory became an eleven year old idiot that day, and stayed that way for the rest of his life. 

Shawn’s hand came to rest atop his, their fingers interlocking over silver lunch trays. Years of practice had Cory tuning out the looks and whispers. Mostly.

“Cor, c’mon,” Shawn said reasonably. “That can’t be true. Not for you. What about prom?” (Across the cafeteria, a girl perked up at the word “prom,” probably thinking that Shawn was asking Cory. The hand-holding didn’t help.) 

Cory shrugged, sniffed at his milk carton suspiciously. It might be out of date. “Only if Topanga can make it down.” 

“The senior ski trip?”

“Yay. Skiing. I’ll probably break my leg. And you know why people _really_ go on that trip.” 

“Well, there has to be something,” said Shawn, far too nonchalant about the assassination of senior year as he ran his free hand through his hair. “Come on, you’re just spiraling. Look at me.” 

Cory forcibly lugged his head around, only to be faced with Shawn. Shawn, with his baggy clothes, his eyes with dark circles, his dangling bag of leftovers. Cory could feel each rough callus in his hand, but more noticeable was the gentle nature of his touch. He wondered where Shawn had learned to hold someone like that. Must have taught himself. Or maybe he was so painstakingly good that it came naturally.

Life was strange, in that it often felt like it wasn’t supposed to be happening. An image of Chet Hunter flashed in Cory’s mind. An image of Topanga did not. 

Shawn picked up the pudding cup from Cory’s tray and waved it in front of his face again. “Hello there? Earth to Cory?” 

Cory glanced at the chair again. He took a steadying breath.

“Let’s face it, Shawn,” he said. “It’s not about enjoying senior year. We don’t get that. So come on—” He reached inside the backpack at his side, pulled out a notebook and a pencil, and shoved aside his lunch. “—let’s get to work figuring out this college stuff.” 

“Ah. Joy,” drawled Shawn. 

Cory ignored him. “In state or out of state?”

“Can I just...not?” 

“ _Not if you want any more of my fries_.”

“Fine, fine!” He flitted his hand around as if he could swat away Cory’s threat. “Then wherever you go, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” 

Shawn, who was still holding Cory’s hand, huffed loudly. “I know, deep in my soul, down to my core, to my very _essence_ , that my truest desire is to attend college with you, my best friend, Cory Matthews.” 

“Well, that was a given.” But Cory smiled and loaded Shawn’s tray with more fries. Already, his heart felt lighter.

* * * 

So he’d made a C on his first meteorology test of the semester. _No biggie_ , Eric told himself. His heart thumped.

Eric glanced up at his professor, a balding man who kept shoving his glasses up his nose. They slid hopelessly back down each time, never quite planting their flag on Everest, but he kept at it regardless. Maybe if he stopped staring down at his desk and started looking up at, say, the class, they wouldn’t fall at all. Just a thought. 

Mr. Hargrove was no Mr. Feeny, but Eric could make do. He could work with this.

“Um, sir?” he said, standing from his desk and making his way to the front of the classroom. All around, students were packing their things and mindlessly filing out the door, apparently completely unbothered by their own grades. Okay, then. That must mean Eric cared the most. Teachers liked that. 

Mr. Hargrove continued to gaze down at the papers on his desk. His glasses dangled, and he shoved them up again. The classroom grew increasingly empty.

Eric cleared his throat awkwardly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “...Sir?” 

Mr. Hargrove wordlessly raised his head. Blinked lazily at Eric. There was a stretch of silence, and Eric stood idly.

“...What is it.” 

“Oh! Right!” said Eric. “I, uh. I was just wondering about my grade.”

Mr, Hargrove’s eyes skimmed over Eric like bees over an unfit flower. “Your grade.” 

“Yes, sir.” Eric hastily reached into his pocket and pulled out the wadded clump of what was once his test, which he had crumpled up in a blur upon seeing the bright red C. He stretched the wrinkled sheet out on Mr. Hargrove’s desk and desperately attempted to smooth it out. At Mr. Hargrove’s bored, half-lidded expression, he yanked the paper back. 

“I made a C,” he explained.

“Yes.” Mr. Hargrove’s neck was leaning dangerously, about to tilt downward forever. Eric wondered if there had been an error in construction, or if maybe there was a magnetic pull between Hargrove’s forehead and his desk.

Eric’s smile cut severely into his cheeks, and he tried to spark a twinkle in his eyes. “Well, I was wondering if there was anything I could do to, you know...fix that. Make a better grade.”

The strange, bony neck lost its battle. Mr. Hargrove looked down. Eric did too, and no, sunlight wasn’t splaying across the wooden desk like soft blonde locks. Its frame never gleamed a vibrant reddish brown, reminiscent of nature, of the tree from which it was crafted. There weren’t even any windows for light to spill through. Just a classroom, with a student trying to learn. 

So...what did this desk have that Eric didn’t? He knew he was taller. He could take it in a fight.

“You made the grade you made,” said Mr. Hargrove to the desk. 

Eric waited. Above the blackboard in front of him, a clock ticked; his next class was in two minutes and all the way across campus. But hey, a good cause. Teachers liked good causes. 

After a moment, Mr. Hargrove looked up again. “You’re still here.” 

“Quite the observant one, aren’t you?” Eric joked, and he almost wished this guy would scowl in offense or snap a ruler or something. Anything other than that glassy, cashier-at-twilight look. “Look, sir, I’m trying here. I’m your student, and I’m trying. So you’ll work with me, right? Could I maybe have a makeup test?”

“No, I don’t do makeup tests. Surely you remember that from the syllabus.” 

“Of course I do,” Eric lied. “But—but I have a valid excuse! I’ve been really busy looking for an apartment lately, and none of the places work for me so far, so I couldn’t focus as much as I wanted to.” 

“Okay,” said Mr. Hargrove. “I still don’t do makeup tests. It’s not my policy.” 

Eric furrowed his eyebrows. “You can’t make an exception?”

“It’s not that I can’t. It’s that I won’t, because that’s my rule.” Mr. Hargrove’s monotone shifted ever so slightly in pitch, the closest he’d come to emoting since that time he’d gotten teary-eyed over the mesosphere. “And as you said, Mr….?”

“Matthews, sir.”

“As you said, Mr. Matthews, you’re a student. In my class. So you follow the rules. In my class.” He gestured to the door at his left, which dangled open like a slack jaw. “And incidentally, that class is over. Office hours aren’t until three. Feel free to come by then, but you won’t get a different answer.” 

“But I really did mean to study harder! It’s just that I _couldn’t_.” The clock ticked again. One minute until his next class. 

“Thus earning you a C. I’m not changing the grade. I won’t allow a makeup test.” 

“But the test was _impossible_!” Eric burst. A tactless action, he knew, but he was right, and that had to count for something. “Only fifteen questions?! That means if I miss two then I’m already at...um. You know. Lower.”

“Subtraction does tend to work that way, yes.” How such a snappy reply could be delivered so sleepily, Eric would never know. The man was a yawn with brain functioning. 

This was clearly why students across campus complained about Mr. Hargrove. Problem was, there were no other options; meteorology wasn’t exactly a large department at Pennbrook, meaning there was only one other section for this particular class, and he would have to rearrange his entire schedule to make that work. 

In short, this had to be a conspiracy. A Make-Eric-Rue-His-Dreams conspiracy. Really, this wasn’t his fault. 

“Okay,” sighed Eric. A hint of the classroom’s cool draft brushed his arms, but having grown accustomed to this by now, he didn’t shiver (nor did he bring a jacket, but that was out of principle. The professor should fix it). “I understand. No redos, no take-backs. I’ll just...hope things go better next time.” 

“I hope so too,” yawned Mr. Hargrove. 

With his teacher already shifting focus back to the desk, Eric didn’t bother excusing himself. Instead, he checked the clock above the blackboard, felt electric spiders crawl up his spine upon seeing the time, and bolted out of the classroom. It wasn’t until he was halfway across campus that he realized he’d left his bookbag behind. 

Okay, okay. This day was a bust. Eric accepted that, and he blamed the education system. 

* * * 

“Oh. You’re awake.” 

Shawn spoke to a dark lump, who happened to be his dad. Or, probably. There was always the possibility that someone had broken into the trailer, so he flicked on the lights just to check.

“Oh,” he said again. The lump was, in fact, his dad. 

Chet Hunter grunted from his worn green chair, kept his eyes on their tiny, flickering television. A static noise fuzzed out from it, the antennae springing from its top like a last ditch effort at life. Shawn couldn’t tell if Chet was actually watching anything, but he could make out a dark, glossy bottle that glimmered in the tv’s dim glow. 

Funny. Chet was usually more of a cheap beer kind of guy, purchased in bulk. Bottles of liquor were reserved for special occasions. Special, cough-blood-and-breathe-ash-all-over-your-heart kind of occasions. Shawn warred with himself, looking from his father’s still form to the door leading to his bedroom. His mattress-room. Something. Point being that it was another room, away from here, and it was _his_.

Chet remained motionless. Without warning, Shawn’s feet start leading him in that direction. Away from the bedroom, the mattress-room, the _his_ room.

Shawn knelt by his dad’s side. His hand hovered over Chet’s shoulder, never quite coming to rest. “Dad. Hey. Dad. It’s me.”

He hated how his words always came out choppy in these moments, severed into bite-sized, clammy chunks that barely fit through the steadily closing-in walls of his throat. Every time, his words sputtered out shrimpily, a lot like the movie struggling to make one coherent sound right now from their tv. As its graying image flickered in and out, he finally realized that it was _Groundhog’s Day_.

Chet grunted again, rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling. Shawn watched the rise and fall of his chest, started counting each one. A habit he’d picked up from scared little eight year-old Shawn, who hadn’t had any sheep to count, because he could never sleep in the first place. 

When Chet did eventually speak, his voice was like a breeze across an empty moor; if Shawn squinted, he could just make out the cold, solitary moon that his dad was howling at in the night. “I quit my job.”

“You...what?” 

“At yer school, son.” Chet’s eyes never left the ceiling. “I ain’t a janitor no more.” 

Shawn pursed his lips, his hand still hovering. It was beginning to feel numb as it dangled next to Chet. “But...I was there all day? I never saw you?” 

Chet burped, his putrid breath infecting the dusty air.“I went in after school finished. Told Mr. Fizzy. Friddles. I promise I ain’t drunk. No, don’t raise a liar. I’m drunk. Sorry I promised, Shawn.” 

Shawn flexed his fingers, telling himself repeatedly that they weren’t shaking. He tried to picture his dad stumbling into Feeny’s office, thinking that a drunken ramble sufficed as a letter of resignation. He tried to picture Mr. Feeny’s face. _Funny_ , he told himself. 

“Why’d you quit?” 

“Well, it wasn’t quittin’. Not really. Just losin’ it faster, on my own terms. A man’s loss.” Shawn didn’t have to squint to see the moon anymore. Chet’s face took on every dark, severe line.“I’d already missed today. I was gonna miss tomorrow. So I did next week early. I...I...I could pick the day when I lost it. Not like Virna….” 

Chet coughed, a harsh sound. His eyes burned with an alien sobriety, but his arm started flapping around hopelessly. Shawn wondered what he was reaching for. 

“I don’t tell ya this enough, son,” said Chet. “But I always know. _I always know it’s gonna happen_. It’s why...it’s why I tell the stories….Don’t tell stories, Shawn.” 

Shawn stared. His fingers curled, hand slowly balling into a fist as it fell from Chet’s shoulder. 

The movie on the tv finally made a clear sound: _Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn’t one today._

“Okay,” sighed Shawn. “Okay. Just...try to get some sleep, Dad.”

Chet had already begun to snore. 

* * * 

_Knock Knock. Knock Knock._

“Hey, Shawn,” said Cory as he opened his window, and before he’d even gotten a clear look at who it was. It was why they’d never bothered with a code; they didn’t need one. 

“Cor!” Shawn almost appeared to leap into the room. An impossibility, given the window’s dimensions, but he made it happen. 

Cory did not question this, nor did he question why Shawn was pacing around his room as if he were trying to stomp out a small fire. In the middle of the night, no less, when people were supposed to be sleeping (or freaking out and researching colleges, with a girlfriend’s gentle guidance over the phone until she decided enough was enough and went to bed).

“You spending the night?” Cory asked. “Go ahead and take the bed, then. Eric’s supposed to be back from the library at some point, but it’s already midnight so what does he expect? For Shawn Hunter _not_ to show up with an amazingly cool entrance? And serves him right for hogging my room, anyway.” 

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure. Whatever.” Shawn pivoted on the spot, threw himself forward, and grabbed Cory by the shoulders. “Just – look.” Their noses nearly touched as he leaned in dramatically, and Cory’s mind flashed back to that time Shawn had shown up in the dead of night, soaking wet as the thunder crackled outside. Back then, Cory had been giddy, heart doing cartwheels at the prospect of a late night adventure with his best friend. Two intrepid sixth graders against the world, fugitives of the law and of Feeny. 

Now, his stomach dropped. “Please tell me it’s just, like, minor vandalism. I’m telling Mr. Turner. No, I’m not. Yes, I am. I don’t know, I don’t know. But whatever it is—” 

“ _Cory!_ ” Shawn’s hot breath tingled against Cory’s skin.

Cory nodded. “Yeah, okay. You talk.” 

“Thank you. Now, listen.” Shawn leaned in even closer, his eyes sparking and his grip tightening on Cory’s shoulders. “I fixed your college problem. Your senior year problem, I mean.”

“You’ve figured out my entire life for me so I never have to make another decision or face the crippling inevitability of change?”

“Even better!” Shawn cheered. Cory laughed.

He continued, “Look, things are crazy right now. I get it. But you have to _enjoy_ the crazy, okay? Savor every moment. _Promise_ me.”

“...Why?” Bemused, Cory laughed again, but this time it tumbled out messily. His friend’s frantic mannerisms didn’t sit well with him, nor did the knowledge that Chet had come back today, and that the former was most certainly a product of the latter. 

“Because,” said Shawn. “It could be our last time together.”

Cory waited for an elaboration, but none came. “Um? I don’t see why this is—”

“ _Promise me!_ ” 

The words darted out poisonously. Shawn’s mouth had straightened into a solemn line, his gaze rich and brimming in the dim light. 

“Okay! S-Sure.” Cory thought for a moment, then leaned forward and touched his forehead to Shawn’s, smiling goofily. “I promise, oh king of crypticism.” 

“ _Thank_ _you_.” And there was genuine relief in the sigh. Strange, but good. Shawn was never this sentimental about anything related to school, and it was never typically this easy to reassure him. Cory was happy that, for once, he could easily solve the problem. 

And there was another easy solution too, one that was far more permanent. He was surprised Shawn hadn’t thought of it himself. 

“Okay, then. Glad that’s settled...whatever ‘that’ was. But you forgot something, genius.” 

“Yes?” Shawn jittered antsily with each passing second; he was standing so close that Cory could feel every subtle, frazzled motion. 

“Maroon,” said Cory steadily, still smiling. “We still have four years of college after this.” 

Shawn stilled, shifting his forehead away from Cory’s. It left a warm imprint, and he flopped back on Cory’s bed, body loose and sagging, as if he were some forgotten doll with stuffing pouring out.

“Um, right,” he said, flashing Cory a sleepy smirk. “You’re...you’re right.” His knee bounced in place. 

“I _knooooow_.” Cory nodded his head up and down in large, exaggerated movements, trying to lighten the mood. “Unless we go into organized crime together. I’m not opposed.” 

Shawn peered carefully at Cory, who had the unnerving sensation that he was being evaluated. Judged. He recognized it because he had always possessed an overwhelming fear of being judged, especially by the people close to him. The Shawn-ranking people. 

He hadn’t expected to be judged by Shawn himself. He didn’t like it. 

Cory knelt down to Shawn’s level, took his hand softly. Unlike in the bright, noisy cafeteria, there was no one watching here, so he didn’t need years of practice. This was natural. “Shawnie?” 

“Forget about the organized crime.” Shawn’s voice was low and rough. Cory squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture. “I just want to enjoy this _year_ together, okay? It’s…it’s important to me." He froze a moment, looking horrified with himself, and whoever did that to him deserved to be thrown into a brick wall. "...That’s cool with you?” he asked. 

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Shawn blinked at the instant, unhesitating reply. He peered at Cory again, processing. Then, achingly slow, he brightened like a sunrise peeking over a hill, and Cory glowed in the light. Shawn’s request—so urgent, and delivered hastily in the night as if it were a wartime rider’s quest—made him feel weird, but for once feeling weird wasn’t so bad. Cory could feel weird if Shawn felt better. 

Besides, he reflected as he settled in bed with Shawn (leaving Eric’s unattended because the complaints weren’t worth it), this strange little promise actually wouldn’t be hard to keep. He realized he’d been wrong before, because if senior year had more _Cory-and-Shawn, Shawn-and-Cory_ , then there was no world where Cory wouldn’t enjoy it. 

That night, he dreamt of being a criminal on the run. Mr. Feeny was the old timey sheriff, and Shawn was Cory’s right hand man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: apparently "ride or die" was used in the late 1990s. That line should certainly not have made it to the final draft, but at least I can support it with a Wikepedia article.
> 
> Anyway, if you're so inclined, it's always nice to receive kudos or comments (I try to reply around the time I post the next chapter!). Have a lovely day, everyone, and thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Here it is: chapter 3 of tymawl! I'm so sorry for the relatively long wait; unfortunately, school became quite busy there for a while, but I'm officially on break, so I was finally able to finish this chapter up! It's a little different from previous chapters in that this is actually the first chapter in which there is only one POV, which I originally did not intend, but as I wrote this, I felt it was best to follow Eric for a bit. He's kind of going through it, guys. Don't worry though, my lovely Shory shippers; Cory and Shawn, along with other characters, do make an appearance in this chapter! Feel free to let me know what you think of single POV as opposed to the typical trio of POVs; I may have to do that more often as the story progresses, so I'd like to know your thoughts. 
> 
> Speaking of which, I would like to thank all of you for the kind comments on the last chapter! The reception to this fic has been overwhelmingly positive, and I'm so excited to respond to each of you as soon as this chapter is posted! 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Another? Isn’t this, like, your fifth?”

This was, indeed, the fifth cup of coffee Eric had ordered. One for every hour he’d lingered here, the sun visibly sinking outside until, now, it was pitch black beyond the doors to the Union. The girl behind the counter was tilting her head with a curious crinkle to her eyes, her blonde bob framing her face in pleasant symmetry, accentuating the faint blush to her cheeks.

Eric leaned in, crossing his elbows over the counter. “Yeah, well, I would’ve never guessed it, but apparently they actually make you _work_ in college? Like, a lot? So I guess my tuition money’s going toward the caffeine budget. Pretty wise investment, if they expect me to stay awake.”

A twitch of the girl’s lips — she smiled. Eric felt a sunny surge of delight, like whenever he stumbled across an old toy at home, one he’d forgotten losing, yet the childish thrill returned immediately upon finding it.

Here, he had stumbled across someone who smiled. A thrill Eric hadn’t known was missing warmed his chest. Cold had become a little too familiar lately.

“You _do_ still have to pay, you know,” the girl said, eyebrows raised as she, too, leaned against the counter. She carried the scent of the Union café, all pastries and coffee and cream, and he could just make out her sparkly pink lip gloss.

She was a girl, doing that thing girls did where they were pretty. _Kill me now,_ thought Eric. _But also no. Let me have this._

“So...my money’s going toward the coffee, but I still have to pay for it?” He pretended to mull this over, then smirked. Met her eyes, which were warm and brown. “Well, I guess that’s worth it. I’m really in it for the view, anyway.”

“If you’re paying to watch _The View_ , I question your financial decisions. And also your taste in tv.”

And if that was a rejection, then at least it was funny. Eric gave a good-natured chuckle, even as something inside him purpled from the bruise. He pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

She grinned at him. “Four-fifty. And if you can’t afford that, I’m sure you can take out a student loan. What’s the average amount—like, five bucks?”

“More or less, but I think I’ve got this one covered.” Eric pulled out the necessary cash and handed it to her. A few minutes later, she returned with his drink and a receipt. Eric thanked her and headed back to his table.

It wasn’t until he sat down that he noticed she’d written her number on his receipt.

Eric turned around in his chair. The girl flashed him a playful grin, then headed toward the back for something. He glanced down at his receipt and saw that she’d left her name, too. Lizzie. Cute.

Wracking his brain, Eric couldn’t recall the last time he’d been hit on. It was . . . nice.

But. Back to work. Splayed open on his desk were textbooks in meteorology, philosophy, and U.S. history. Tomorrow was a Wednesday, meaning he had three classes, the professors of which had all decided to schedule a test for the exact same day; apparently, teachers were like cliques. They coordinated. He should have remembered that from high school, but no, he’d been under the misapprehension that things change.

Eric rubbed his temple, sucked down some coffee. Let the bitterness tunnel down his throat and prayed it would wake him up. There was no one else in the Union, which—yes, it was ten at night, but that wasn’t _so_ late. He was only tired because he’d been busy all day, with apartment searching and classes and paper-writing and now studying. Where were all the students?

Voices rumbled in the distance, like a distant stampede. They warbled steadily closer, and Eric squinted out into the dark world beyond the Union’s glass doors, trying to spot the source. He hadn’t really taken the time to explore campus since starting college, what with not living here and all, so everything that happened outside class was a mystery to him. A literal stampede could very well be flattening out the grass on the Quad and leaving its deft little hoof marks, and Eric would have no clue.

“Frat party,” explained another voice, smooth and gemlike as it tinkled in the air. That would be his crush, then.

“Ah.” Eric turned around to find that Lizzie was walking toward him as she fiddled with her apron, eventually undoing its tight knot and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair. Underneath was a simple white t-shirt that really shouldn’t look so good on her. Another thing he’d missed during his gap year—the _effortless_ beauty of women. That _I’m a pretty girl_ crap. He pictured her in sweatpants; tragically, this too was attractive, which really wasn’t fair when his meteorology test started promptly at eight the next morning. Dating wasn't an option. 

“They’re having them all this week,” Lizzie continued, stretching her arms now that she was free of the apron’s confines. “And next week too, since that’s when rush officially starts. I’m actually gonna drop by once my shift’s up.”

“Sucks that you have to wait,” said Eric, though he really didn’t know that it did. All his knowledge of fraternities came from television or old high school friends who’d gone to college before him, and _ouch_ , he really needed to stop reminding himself of that. He was here now, wasn’t he? “When’s your shift over with?”

Lizzie appraised Eric for a moment, biting her lip. Nodded slightly to herself, as if deciding something. “Thirty minutes ago, actually.”

“ _What_?” Eric quickly scanned his surroundings again. Suddenly the empty chairs made complete sense. “I’m—I’m _so sorry_! Let me just, yeah, hang on—” He proceeded to keep his body facing her while his hands fumbled behind him for his textbooks, notebooks, and pencils. Something clattered, and he realized that he’d knocked over one of his empty coffee cups. His body awkwardly jerked, as if trying to hatch a third arm and collect the cup too. “— _Shit_.” His brain spun from Lizzie, to his things for school, to the coffee cup lying idle on the floor. And then, _now_ of all times, he suddenly remembered his paper was due Friday, and that started wheeling around his brain too.

_There was so much to do_.

“Hey,” said one of the things spinning in his mind’s eye, either Lizzie or the coffee cup. There was no way his textbooks were this comforting. A hand gripped him firmly on the shoulder, and okay, that must be Lizzie. “Calm down. It’s fine, _really_. I stayed because I wanted to.”

She looked him in the eye. Smiled a glittery pink smile. Eric couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked him in the eye and smiled. Not since he’d started college. His mind stilled.

“W-Why?” he said breathlessly, a disbelieving giggle spiking through his speech, like an audible representation of the spike in his heart rate.

She tilted her head at him like he’d just ordered a sixth cup of coffee. “Because I clearly don’t like you.” she said. “And I clearly wasn’t hoping that you might drop by the party later. You know, the one _I’ll_ be at.”

Eric said nothing. There was no heat in his cheeks. His body had forgotten how to blush, somewhere along the way.

Lizzie bit her lip, kept her eyes on Eric. Then she turned around and headed back to the counter. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought she’d decided to abandon him and his pale, non-blushing face, but a moment later she returned, desperately fiddling with a small purse that matched her lip gloss.

“Ah-hah! _There_ we go,” said Lizzie, yanking out what looked like a creased flyer. She jutted her hand out to Eric. “Take this.”

It sounded like an order, so Eric took the flyer and unfolded it. There was a dark silhouette of what looked like a building on campus that he’d passed a few times, with blocky white text: PI KAPPA ALPHA NEW SEMESTER BASH, 10 PM. And then there was an address.

“It’s at their frat house. Careful not to step on a beer can once you’re there. Wouldn’t want you catching tetanus.”

Eric looked from the flyer to Lizzie. “How do you know so much about this?”

Lizzie shrugged, but there was the faintest hint of pride twinkling in her eyes. “I’m their sweetheart. Good thing, too. They’re idiots.”

Idiots. Eric tried not to flinch at the word. He’d had enough _idiot_ to last a lifetime.

“Well, fraternities _are_ the one place where it’s cool to be an idiot,” said Lizzie. Eric frowned in confusion, then _oh_. He’d said that out loud. Oops.

Lizzie laughed at his expression. “Hey, chill. You didn’t wound my pride as a three year veteran of Pi Kappa Alpha. I just organize bake sales and dances for them.” She glanced down to the floor, wove her fingers together as she rocked on her heels. He saw the faintest rise and fall of her chest as she took a steady breath.

Then suddenly she was looking him in the eyes again. There was a startling flare in her gaze. “Just be there tonight,” she said. “Come.”

She didn’t wait for Eric to answer, hastily walking away to finish up her work. Eric watched her for a moment, thinking of her smile.

It eventually occurred to him that he should pack up his stuff so the poor girl could finally close, and that he did. Shoving all his stuff into his book bag and resolving to organize it later, he trudged out the Union door, picking up Lizzie’s flyer and a worksheet of his for U.S. History. He didn’t look back at Lizzie, and he wasn’t sure if that was nerves or sauveness.

He loitered outside the door briefly. Looked down at his two sheets. In one hand, stuff for school. In the other, fraternity stuff.

He finally looked back at Lizzie. She’d stopped working for a moment, leaning against her counter with closed eyes and a content smile. Her head bobbed side to side to some unknown rhythm playing in her mind. He imagined taking her to the party, dancing to whatever song she wanted. He’d been so _tired_ lately, he realized, and he hadn’t really felt awake until now, when a cute girl smiled at him and invited him to a party.

Then Eric remembered his paper due on Friday. The one he really needed to work on. But it was so dark out here, and he could see so clearly in there.

Eric kept thinking about his paper. He kept watching this girl and her unknown rhythm.

He _really_ needed to work. He knew that.

He kept watching.

* * *

He only went to the party for about half an hour, just a small break, and instantly he was a hit. He and this one guy started laughing about how ridiculous the workload in comp was, then that guy introduced him to a meteorology major who laughed with him about Mr. Hargrove, and then he got pulled into a group and they _all_ laughed about that time he expected a dangerous bear to play with children at his dad’s store. Eric hadn’t laughed with anyone when that first happened. He’d been too busy living life without the “kid gloves,” as his dad put it.

As he playfully twirled Lizzie in his arms to the beat of a fast-paced pop song, it occurred to Eric that he’d really missed the kid gloves version of life. It occurred to him that maybe he’d been an idiot for a reason. Maybe being an idiot was easier.

But he wasn’t an idiot anymore, or at least not a total one. A recovering idiot, lifelong recipient of the Most Improved Award. So he bid farewell to the small crowd of mildly drunk frat boys that had congregated around him, gracefully bowing out to do his work. They were visibly disappointed, and Eric wondered why teachers never looked like that when students left the classroom. If they did, their students might actually want to come back the next day.

Mr. Feeny, at least, had the decency to be disappointed in him. To expect more. Thank God for him.

“But you _can’t_ go _,_ ” moaned a kid named Sammy, the aforementioned meteorology major. He was a fresh-faced eighteen year with bright eyes and an easy smile, so young he’d gone with _Sammy_ over alternatives such as _Sam_ or _Samuel_. Eric glanced around at the crowd of kids surrounding him, and he saw exactly that. Kids.

When had everyone started looking so young? He could see it in the way they drank their beer—with pride, like it was the last badge on the road to Eagle Scout and not just another drink that happened to be fun sometimes. And Eric suddenly realized he’d become an old man. Looking around at these excited young faces, he kind of resented how much life had aged him over the past few years. He was supposed to be a kid too, wasn’t he?

Not that this seemed to bother the kids in question. They looked at him now with shining eyes. Eric’s smile reached up into his cheeks, masking for a moment the circles beneath his eyes. It was nice to be wanted. To have friends. He wondered what Jason was up to these days.

Sammy continued, “You still haven’t told us the story about covering for your brother when he ran away to Disneyland.”

“Disney World,” Eric corrected, still grinning. “And I would love to, really, but you know…” He almost rambled about schoolwork and tests and studying, but something held him back. “...I’ve got work. Lots of it.”

The kids groaned in unison, a chorus of people who desperately wanted to hear more from Eric. Which was kind of ironic, because he found himself wanting to hear more from them.

Around their little circle, thundering music shook the frames of the frat house as neon colors flared across its walls, distracting Eric from these kids and their shining, eager faces; he blinked under the glare of the lights, rubbed his ear under the strain of the music. Somehow, the kids appeared unresponsive, just as shining and eager and focused as ever. How they managed to remain so calm, so completely unflustered when everything around them was so _loud_ , distracting and bombarding and _overwhelming_ , was beyond Eric.

“Sorry,” he grunted, trying not to rub his forehead in pain as the music seemed to grow louder. “It’s just...you know, school–”

He was cut off by a bark of delighted laughter from Sammy, whose gaze had shifted to something behind Eric, over toward the house’s entrance (someone, in a drunken stupor, had left the door open, but no one save for Eric seemed to mind the cool draft from the outside world). Eric frowned in confusion as Sammy nudged his friend, who smiled and nudged _his_ friend, until everyone in the group was beaming at the door.

“Hey, look who showed up! It’s _Jack!_ ”

The group scattered even faster than it had gathered, tumbling apart only to come back together at a point some distance away. Dazed at the suddenness, Eric watched them go, frown deepening.

_Who was Jack?_

Resolving that he would leave once his curiosity had been satisfied, he made his way over to his departed throng, their lanky forms bathed in neon light and their shadows collecting against the opposite wall, stretching into large, dark figures that joined together into a vaguely mountainous shape. Their bright, friendly faces, now struck a sunny orange by the lights, stood in distinct contrast to the shadowy mountain just behind them.

“Hey, guys,” he said, entering the small circle once more. His shadow joined theirs on the wall.

An arm shot around his shoulder, shaking him roughly as a burst of beer-tinged breath blasted abruptly in his ear. “Eric, you stayed!” One of the many people to whom he'd spoken since coming here—Adam, something?

“Just for a sec.” Eric shrugged. “When one name has an entire group scrambling across the room, kind of feels like I have to meet the guy.” He craned his neck to see past Adam/Andrew/Alex. “So. Jack. Who is he?”

Upon first glance, it appeared that “Jack” was simply a perfectly-tailored, white collar shirt paired with khakis as smooth as a freshly mowed lawn. Finely polished shoes shone from the bottom of this arrangement, and the scent of some fancy cologne, probably with a French name and fresh from some glistening glass bottle, wafted up to Eric’s nose.

It took a moment of squinting into the shadows for him to see Jack’s actual face.

“Well, your highness, it’s a pleasure.” Eric stepped forward, stretching out his hand for Mr. Clean Cut to shake. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite meet the guy’s eyes. “I’m Eric.”

Mr. Clean Cut, or Jack, was leaning back against the dark wall, shoulders slightly hunched, but his spine immediately straightened at Eric’s words, and he gave Eric the firm, slightly harried handshake of a businessman named Bill or Kenny. _A Ken doll,_ Eric thought, reserving a snicker.

“Please, pleasure’s all mine, Eric,” rolled out of Jack’s mouth like a plush red carpet. It was a readily packaged, rehearsed greeting. Despite the firm grip of his hand, Jack's eyes skimmed only briefly over Eric’s face before returning to their former disinterested vigil over the floor. “I’m Jack, of course, but I take it you already knew that.”

“Yeah, I did. _Of course_ I did,” Eric parroted, a note of...something in his voice. He shook himself, smirked. “Hard for me not to, with everyone cheering your name. And looks like you dressed the part too,” he added, glancing again at Jack’s spotless shirt and khakis. An ironing board and lint roller probably ghosted around him constantly, just in case. The spirit of propriety probably possessed Jack at all times. Eric shook himself again.

Jack shrugged, apparently having the audacity to be self-deprecating. He opened his mouth, most likely to answer, when another guy beat him to it. At this, he merely shrugged again and leaned back against the wall.

“Trust me, this is dressing _down_ for Jack,” said the interrupter, who took the opportunity to elbow Jack affectionately; Jack didn’t reciprocate. Only shrugged again. The guy was full of shrugs, it seemed. “Our favorite little prep. This one outfit could probably cover my tuition.”

They all erupted in laughter, the mediocre joke made funnier by all the Bud Light pumping through their veins. Save for Eric, Jack was the only one not laughing, a polite chuckle flopping out of his mouth and an uncomfortable grin tucked into his face.

“I, uh, I like to look nice. That’s all,” Jack murmured. Somehow, they all managed to hear him, and they burst into laughter again.

“We definitely know that,” said Sammy, who stood happily at Jack’s side. “And we’re all very eager to see your baby pictures one day, with the tiny little tuxedos and toy briefcases.”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to Sammy, glanced down again as he answered, “I don’t have a lot of baby pictures, actually.”

Eric suddenly rolled his eyes. “Too adorable for mere mortals to lay our gaze on?”

Another quick flash of Jack’s eyes—hints of lightning in the shadows, gone before Eric could even register it. He’d probably been so desperate for an actual person to take shape in the dollop of vanilla before him that he’d hallucinated it.

“Heh. Probably,” said Jack. Shrug.

The conversation continued. Mostly, it was centered on Jack, which was odd because the guy never showed much interest in anything that was being said. Eric learned about Jack’s wealthy family, Jack’s three-story house, Jack’s private plane, Jack’s personal chef, Jack’s annual Christmas trips to Paris, while Jack himself said just enough to pass for polite conversation.

Not that anyone seemed to mind. Though he barely put forth any effort, they all adored Jack. Even when he seemed to shrink away from their remarks, even when his eyes only briefly took in their faces, hardly paying attention, they adored him.

He was the center of attention, and he didn’t even want it.

_I don’t like him_ , Eric decided.

* * *

Eric entered his room (after spending only half an hour at the party, just like he’d promised himself), and for a moment he was in high school again. There, to his right, was Cory, lazily tossing their signed baseball up toward the ceiling, attempting to catch it when it fell down, and scowling at himself whenever he fumbled and the ball tumbled off the bed, just out of his reach. He’d huff and puff at this, face screwing up in self-disgust as if all he was good for was catching a baseball, or as if it was too much effort to lean down and pick it back up, but he always did. Pick it back up, that is. And his face would screw up again, this time with determination, and he’d start the process all over again.

He’d had that same determined look since he was about three years old. That was the thing about siblings—you could always count on them to be familiar.

So Eric fulfilled his familiar role, waiting for Cory to toss the ball again so he could catch it midair. Then he leaned down and noogied Cory’s head with it.

“ _Eric_!” Cory sputtered, waving his hand around in an attempt to knock Eric’s arm away. But Eric was relentless. And he’d had years of practice. “Eric, _stop_! _Leave me alone_!”

“ _You_ make me stop,” Eric goaded with a smirk. “You’re so big and strong now, catching baseballs. But, wait—” Cory sat up and lunged to reclaim the baseball; all it took to stop him was Eric holding him back with one hand, stretching his unused arm back behind him as far as it would go, the ball safely perched on his fingertips. “— _I’m_ bigger and stronger. Sorry, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kiddo,” pouted Cory, face so flushed that it spread down his neck. “And _give me that back_.”

“Make me,” teased Eric. He stepped back and began tossing the ball from hand to hand, an implicit challenge evident in his deceptively laidback stance.

Cory narrowed his eyes, shoulders bunching up and preparing to strike—Eric knew from experience—when a snappy voice knifed through their fun with the fine precision of a trained chef rapidly chopping vegetables.

“ _Boys! What’s going on? If I have to climb through this phone and forcibly hold you two apart, I will. Understood?_ ”

And that was when Eric noticed the small white telephone lying on Cory’s pillow, right next to the indent where his head had been moments prior. The Topanga placeholder and the Cory placeholder, lying in bed together.

Cory’s posture instantly relaxed, face losing all heat save for a minor tint of pink that remained on his cheeks. He eagerly snatched the phone up, even though it was on speaker, and his dorky smile was framed by two rosy blushes.

“Please do,” Cory simpered to the phone. His eyes twinkled. “I don’t know if you picked up on this, but I actually miss you quite a lot, honey.”

“ _I definitely picked up on it_ ,” said Topanga on the other end, and her smile was audible. “ _But say it again. Because you may or may not have picked up on this, but I miss you too, and I could listen to your cute little voice all day_.”

Cory giggled, a radiant grin on his face. He fell back on his bed like the main character in a high school romance flick. “I’m not cute,” he said.

Topanga answered plainly, “ _It’s a good thing for a guy to be cute. It’s why I like you—most boys don’t let themselves be cute often, but you do it all the time_.”

“Thanks,” Cory deadpanned, but he was still smiling, and the moonlight from the window revealed his lingering blush.

Eric chose then to clear his throat, arms going limp as the baseball fell from his hands. “Uh, hello? Guys? Why does Pangers have to be on speaker, anyway? So you two can gross out everyone in the house with your obnoxious flirting?”

Cory rolled his eyes, not removing his dazed, love struck gaze from the ceiling. “ _No_ ,” he said, and then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he added, “She’s on speaker so she can talk to Shawn.”

It was at that moment that the bathroom door flew open to reveal Shawn Hunter, the golden light from the bathroom spilling out around him and framing his lithe form, which was tucked safely within Cory’s celery-patterned bathrobe. His damp, tousled hair dripped onto Eric’s bedroom floor, and he was smiling at them around a toothbrush that stuck out from his mouth like a lollipop.

“Shawn’s staying with us tonight,” Cory explained, sounding a tad breathless. He was finally looking away from the ceiling and instead toward Shawn, but as the light from the bathroom struck his eyes and caused them to shine, Eric noticed that he still appeared dazed.

“Yep,” said Shawn, removing the toothbrush from his mouth. He glanced between Cory and Eric with a smirk. “I take it you guys are done fighting? I’m safe to come out?”

“We weren’t fighting—” Eric started, but Shawn was already strutting past him, leaving damp footprints in his wake as he dropped onto Cory’s bed and let a stream of water droplets splatter all over the comforter. Cory didn’t seem to mind; he’d already sat up and scooted over so Shawn would have a place to sit.

The moonlight hit the toothbrush in Shawn’s hand. Eric frowned. “Hey, wait a sec. Is that my tooth—?”

“Hey, babe!” Shawn called into the phone receiver. He purposefully flicked some water at Cory, who giggled in much the same way he had with Topanga. “You did okay Cory-sitting while I was away?”

“ _So-so_ ,” Topanga chirped. “ _He started getting grumpy toward the end though, poor thing. It’s probably getting close to his bedtime_.”

“Awww.” Shawn nudged Cory’s shoulder playfully, beaming at him. “Is that right? You need to go night-night, Cor?”

It was far more teasing than anything Eric had thrown his way, yet Cory’s response was completely different. He returned Shawn’s nudge, returned his beaming smile, and spoke with full confidence, “Yup. And I need both of you here to tuck me in.”

“ _I’ll be right over_ ,” said Topanga promptly, like she was already penciling Cory in.

“And I’ll get a warm glass of milk ready,” Shawn pitched in.

Apparently, it was supposed to have been obvious that Eric was not included in Cory’s _both of you_. He stood there awkwardly with his bookbag slung around one shoulder, saying nothing.

But he did have work to do, which was the entire point of coming home.

“Uh, guys,” he tried, but the trifecta was continuing their conversation, completely oblivious to Eric’s presence.

Which. It wasn’t like he’d lived here for the past nineteen going on twenty years or anything. Wasn’t like he’d known these people for pretty much his entire life. Wasn’t like he was Cory’s brother. Literal blood. Apparently “blood over warm glass of milk” wasn’t a thing.

“. . . I wish you’d brought your college applications, Shawn,” Cory was saying. “Since the three of us are all here, sort of, maybe we could’ve worked on them together. Start figuring out our plans.”

As Shawn shrugged Cory off and Topanga began to nag both of them, which prompted Cory to jokingly bicker with her over why he was getting in trouble when Shawn was the one who hadn’t brought his applications, which prompted Shawn to get mock offended and call Cory a snitch, which prompted Cory to get _actually_ offended and insist he’d _never_ snitch on Shawn—

—as all of this happened, Eric slowly started to scowl. These three happy dorks were all together, as they had been since childhood, bantering lightly as they discussed their plans for their incredibly bright futures, which probably included all three of them _remaining_ together.

And. Well. Something about the word “college” was setting Eric off.

He hadn’t been drinking tonight, save for coffee, but the next words spewed out as acidically as if they’d lurched straight from his stomach.

“ _This was my room first, you know_.”

Cory and Shawn immediately straightened, and Eric thought he detected the subtlest flinch from Shawn, gone before he could truly register it. They gaped at him for a moment, Cory’s hand twitching up to rest comfortingly on Shawn’s shoulder—he’d noticed the flinch too—as they exchanged glances of perplexity. Then they looked toward the phone, as if they could cast their eyes through the receiver and silently communicate with Topanga all the way on the other end. Knowing the three of them, they probably could.

Cory’s eyes flashed with concern. For a moment, things felt normal again. “Eric . . .?”

“I-I should . . . I can just go,” Shawn stammered, shooting abruptly from the comforter like he’d just been called to walk the plank, dive into subzero waters and float back up as a frozen stiff. Guilt drilled through Eric’s skin, struck bone and heart, but never gold.

Just like that, the concern in Cory’s eyes vanished. His expression hardened.

“ _Eric . . ._ ” Not a question this time. A warning. Cory stood up, hands alighting on Shawn’s shoulders, and gently guided Shawn back to his bed, like coaxing a stray kitten out from the dark underside of a steadily rotting house. Once he’d gotten Shawn settled, he rounded on Eric, mouth snapping open to tell him off, when Topanga’s voice broke through the air, asking in concern if everything was okay. Somehow, all the way from Pittsburgh, she’d timed herself perfectly. Knew exactly when she was expected to contribute.

Clearly, they all knew each other very well. And by _they_ , Eric meant everyone in this room who wasn’t Eric Matthews.

He hurried away from them before anyone had a chance to say more. The door to Cory’s bedroom slammed behind him.

* * *

Eric rushed past his parents in the living room, knowing he had no intentions of joining them. Not when they’d send him those tired looks with worry lines creasing their faces, forcing their tone to remain mild as they casually mentioned finding an apartment— _every_ time. Or even worse, they’d ask him about college, which—Eric was _supposed_ to be screwing up the housing thing, but he didn’t want them worrying about his grades. _He_ didn’t want to worry about his grades. He was tired too.

“Eric—?” said his mom.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, shuffling into the kitchen. “Going out.”

By out, of course, he meant outside. The backyard.

Here, he hesitated.

Across the fence, all the lights in Mr. Feeny’s house were out; his windows were dark and peaceful, and everything was silent. He’d probably had a nice night to himself, reclining on antique furniture as he sipped tea and cracked open an old, dusty classic. _Good for Feeny_ , thought Eric. _Turning in early for once_.

Opportunities for Eric to do the same, to have a relaxing night in and go to bed at a reasonable hour, were dwindling, becoming fewer and farther between as the weeks passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so, not without tripping over Cory’s scattered schoolbooks and college pamphlets, or trying to study while Cory was on the phone. He could try going downstairs, but. His parents. Those _stares_.

In the Matthews home, Eric felt rather like a falcon at a hummingbird feeder—out of place, and the source of many double takes because _hey, you dumb falcon, this is a hummingbird feeder, we’re all hummingbirds, we’re all tiny and cute and we’re gonna go soak in the birdbath after this, shouldn’t you be in the woods or the mountains or wherever it is falcons go? We wouldn’t know. We’re hummingbirds_.

Eric was well aware that he was not operating on his parents’ ideal schedule, and now even his brother’s patience appeared to be wearing thin. He was an unwanted ghost from a bygone era, haunting their home, wailing down the halls at night. Forcibly reminding them of when, once upon a time, he had belonged.

Briefly, Eric recalled how he’d felt back at the frat party; sure, he’d felt a little old, but they were all about the same age, weren’t they? He wasn’t _supposed_ to feel old, and—importantly—none of them had acted like he was. They’d all wanted him around. They’d begged for him to stay. Eric wondered what it would be like to be Jack. To always, effortlessly belong.

And it was then that Eric resolved to find out.

Not sparing another glance to his old house or Feeny’s darkened window, Eric hurried back to the frat house, where he knew people were waiting on him. He had a story about Disney World to finish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've officially set Eric on his course for quite a few chapters to come, and we've introduced Jack, who will definitely become more important as the story progresses! I also found a way to incorporate Cory and Shawn, and even Topanga, so I hope you guys enjoyed that! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please feel free to leave kudos or a comment, for which I am always grateful, especially for a BMW fic! I will be responding to all of your comments on last chapter soon, so be on the look out for that! 
> 
> Next time: Angela!!! She was supposed to be in this chapter before Eric took over, but hopefully--unless the next chapter gets carried away too--she'll make an appearance next time! 
> 
> Bye for now!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at me updating this within a semi-reasonable time frame! I know it's not a super regular schedule, but hey, at least I didn't have a perfectionism-fueled panic that left me completely incapable of completing the chapter as time passed I got more and more anxious at the thought of returning to it . . . not that that's . . . ever happened. 
> 
> I would like to thank everyone for their kudos and comments on the last chapters; replies will be up either later tonight or tomorrow! I'm so excited to get back to all of you! 
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy the show!

As it turned out, poetry girl’s name was Angela. Angela Moore.

As it turned out, she was even cuter when Shawn wasn’t seeing her from a distance.

Sure, as she’d taped up that poster on their first day of classes, he’d obviously noticed her stunning figure. Who wouldn’t? And his hands had twitched as he took in the finely-styled curls of hair he’d wanted to twirl like dancers with his fingertips. He’d noticed her, and he’d thought that she was cute, and he’d briefly contemplated asking for her number. Seeing her from a distance had been enough to know he might appreciate a shot with her.

But it wasn’t until recently, when he’d started seeing her up close, that he noticed the details. From his current perspective, for example, Shawn could see the delicate, pastel pink of her nails as she absent-mindedly scribbled in a notebook on her desk, and of course it made him wonder what she was drawing. Or, writing? Shawn liked to play a game with himself sometimes, when he was particularly bored in class, where he guessed how Angela chose to fill in the lines of said notebook. Privately, it helped him fill in the lines of her – or at least, of how he pictured her.

Because he still hadn’t actually spoken to her.

In his defense, they were only in their second week of school, but while for some people that was perfectly reasonable, it was slow work for Shawn Hunter. Ideally, he would have had his two weeks by now, or at least have her penciled in somewhere down the line. Which, you know, might be disturbingly anti-feminist of him, but again in his defense, he always let girls know where he stood on the outset. He wasn’t a _no-caller_ , heaven forbid. He never left _without explanation_. That was the whole point of the two-week rule––no one was ever left wondering or waiting.

But here he was, liking Angela before he’d even planned her exit. He really needed to hurry up with the talking so they could hurry up with the kissing, then the leaving, then the wash, rinse, repeat.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered insistently to Cory at his side. Then he waited for a reply.

He waited longer.

“ _Yip_ -yip-yip-yip-yip-yip,” said Cory, eventually.

Shawn turned and saw that his friend was snoring, eyes closed and arms pillowing his head on their shared desk. Apparently, he was still shaking off the effects of his third-period nap.

“Cor, come on.” Shawn picked up his pencil and jabbed the eraser end into Cory’s pillow-arms. “How am I supposed to stay awake in class if you’re asleep?”

His friend, accordingly, grunted where he lay. “Not _now_ , Eric,” he muttered.

“Not Eric. The better-looking one.”

A beat. Then a heavy, blurred sigh. “Hi, Shawn. Hate you.”

“Morning, sunshine,” Shawn chirped in reply. “And shut up. I should be hating _you_. Tossing and turning the entire night, hogging up the covers. Acting like it’s _your_ bed or something. It’s very presumptuous of you, and I don’t even know what that word _means_.”

And yeah, sorry, but this whole thing really was Cory’s fault. Instead of worrying himself sick last night over his idiotic brother, he should’ve just let Shawn escape through the window. It would’ve been the simplest solution, and no one would’ve been left with worry-lines or sleep deprivation as a result. Eric wouldn’t have felt the need to storm off in Shawn’s place.

Not that Eric was absolved of guilt either. He shouldn’t have been such a bastard about shit Shawn already knew. Shawn was already fully aware of everything in the world that wasn’t his, thank you very much, and he didn’t need a Matthews rubbing it in.

Cory sighed again, this time softly, and hoisted his head up from the desk, rubbing his eyes and blinking under the classroom’s harsh lighting.

“I don’t really hate you,” he yawned. Only Cory could make a yawn sound so achingly sincere. He was always good at that—taking the average, the everyday, and cultivating it until it bloomed like a flower. Then he picked all his flowers, arranged them, and gifted them to Shawn.

Shawn’s cheeks flushed. He was always so stupidly dramatic, and he wished he could blame Cory for that. 

“Thanks,” he drawled, knee subtly bouncing underneath their desk. It brushed against Cory’s, and the classroom must have grown colder, because Shawn found himself with a subtle shiver up his spine. “I don’t hate you too. Now come here.”

“ _In public_?” whined Cory, but he obediently leaned in the direction of Shawn, who set to work straightening his wrinkled collar. Once this was done, Shawn hummed with approval, then lowered his voice back down to a whisper.

“So,” he said. “Like I was saying, today’s the day.”

“For what?” asked Cory, who still looked like a third grader revolting against bedtime.

Shawn grinned. “Angela. I’m gonna talk to her today.”

Cory stared for a moment. Around them, more students began filing in. “Angela Moore? I didn’t even know you liked her.”

“I wouldn’t say I _like_ her,” said Shawn, fully aware of how toddlerish that made him sound. “But she is pretty. I think I could like her for two weeks.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, Shawnie, but Topanga says your two-week rule is dumb.”

“Ah, been a while since the last _Topanga says_. I knew you’d relapse. That’s why you don’t know about me and who I like—you’re busy filling your head with Topanganese.”

"I happen to like Topanganese!" 

Cory now appeared very alert; Shawn was startled by a wild urge to smirk. Something about his friend being bugged by his crush pleased him to no end.

But then Cory beamed, and Shawn went with a frown instead. Down tumbled his eyebrows too, like a disassembled bridge.

“So you _do_ like her; you admit it!” Cory squealed. He clapped his hands together with better form than any of the cheerleaders Shawn had ever dated. “ _Shawnie,_ _you like-like someone_!”

“I don’t like-like anyone, and _keep your voice down_!” hissed Shawn. But then he gave Cory a playful shove. Cory returned it with a wide grin, and how could he not smile back, with Cory looking at him like that, eyes all dopey and crinkly? Another of Cory’s talents was turning Shawn into the silly, happy-go-lucky kid that he’d never actually gotten to be growing up.

It was his turn to sigh. Shawn always hated getting angry with the Matthews, because then they went and did stuff like this, proving time and time again why they were the only people who mattered.

Bouncing in his seat, Cory looked like he was about to say more, when––

“Mr. Matthews, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so excited over class material. But I’d dare to suggest your experience might be limited, if you never actually face forward.”

Another of Cory’s talents: making Shawn completely forget that he was in a classroom. Knowing that a correction for Cory was almost always a correction for him too, he forced himself to face forward, grinning awkwardly at Feeny’s dour expression.

Maybe he and Angela could get detention together or something. That seemed to be the most consistent quality time he got with anyone.

* * *

His bedroom _smelled_ , for one thing. And not like Mom’s morning pancakes.

No. It smelled like vomit. And it felt like vomit too, all wet and sticky with strange chunks of unrecognizable substances.

Then Eric opened his eyes, and he saw that it actually was vomit. And also not his bedroom.

Which left the question of where, in fact, he was.

He pushed himself off the ground and––shakily––found his footing, only to topple back down and stay there; it was strange, how distinctly not-solid his body felt, like an oversized mound of Jell-O leaning dangerously from side to side. For some reason, even though he'd never asked, it was Eric’s job to keep it all together.

And then he remembered.

Oh. Yeah. Drunk.

Which meant this was his hangover. That would explain the boa constrictor coiling around his skull with nauseating tightness. There was a sharp kick to his side, and for a moment he thought this might be a new, yet to be discovered symptom of Morning After Disease, when a familiar voice sounded excitedly.

“Eric––hey, _Eric!_ You’re awake!”

“Guess so…” Eric groaned, and he rolled over to see Sammy’s round, friendly face smiling down at him from the couch. His dark hair was disheveled, a putrid stench radiating from the stain on his crumpled white t-shirt; all in all, however, he looked quite content, tucked into the couch’s beat up cushions like a kid tucked into the moon’s crescent.

“Finally, _someone_ is,” said Sammy. He leaned over and fished around on the floor until, with a satisfied whoop, his hand landed on a cardboard pizza box that Eric hadn’t noticed. He snagged one of the two remaining slices and continued around a mouthful of pepperoni, “Everyone else either passed out or ditched me for class.”

“Class...?” echoed Eric, finally succeeding in pushing himself off the ground. The room spun as he sat there on crossed legs, and because it was somehow still possible, his head began to throb even harder. It was as if the shards of a shattered light bulb were digging desperately into his skull, leaving significant cracks.

“Yeah.” Sammy shrugged. Crumbs dotted his t-shirt as he spoke. “Apparently there’s some big U.S. History test today or something? I don’t know, I’m in World History. Sucks for those guys, though.”

“Well, you’ve got that right. I’m actually in that class. The prof makes you memorize like five entire chapters for one test….” Eric trailed off, thinking for a moment. And that was when it hit him.

He was in that class.

He had a U.S. History test.

Today.

 _Scratch that_ , Eric thought, hurriedly checking his watch. He’d _had_ a U.S. History test. Three hours ago.

“Shit,” said Eric, immediately bolting to his feet. He tumbled to the side in an instant, caught his balance, then promptly tumbled to the other side, toward Sammy on the couch. He was making his way to the door in zig-zags. “ _Shit shit shit_.”

Sammy was sitting up too now. “Dude. You okay?”

“Didn’t you hear me?!” Eric snapped. “I’m in the class. I–– _shit,_ who leaves a broken beer bottle in the middle of the floor like that––I have a test today. And––wait, _wait_.” Eric checked his watch again, ignoring the warm blood now oozing through his sock. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Sammy eyed him uncertainly. “What’s up? I, uh, I mean what else is up?”

“ _My_ _philosophy test_. It’s happening right now and I’m _missing_ it!”

“Oh. Dude.”

“ _Yep_.”

Eric scrambled this way and that around the living room, already searching frantically for things before his brain had even decided what they were. His mind landed on _shoes_ , and he bent back down to his knees, squinting under chairs and loveseats and the aforementioned couch. It seemed that no matter what he did, he was always jarred back down to the dusty ground, knocked painfully to his knees.

“Well, uh,”—Sammy swiveled his feet up on the couch to give Eric a better view—“I’m sure you’ll still have time to take it if you hurry? And hey, at least you didn’t miss the meteorology test!”

Eric’s arm had darted under the couch for the first hint of a shoe that he saw, and that was where it froze.

“The meteorology test,” he repeated.

“Yeah…” The couch squeaked as Sammy shifted where he sat. “The meteorology test. You…” He paused, probably weighing his words. “...you didn’t forget, did you?”

“ _No_ , I just…”

He’d been putting off studying for it all week, focusing on his other classes. Every time he’d tried picking up his textbook, it had felt so heavy in his hands, and he could clearly hear Professor Hargrove’s dull voice reciting page after page of lecture notes. And that scarlet letter, that _C_ , would flare up in his mind, and he’d find himself setting his textbook down, resolving to study later.

Later had turned into last night, the night before his test. And he really _had_ been planning on studying then, once he’d finished with history and philosophy, only…

Only he’d gone to the party. And the rest of the night had been a blur.

“I have to go,” said Eric. He retracted his hand from under the couch.

“Hey, wait a minute, Eric. You sound kind of—”

“I have to go.”

Eric didn’t wait for Sammy’s reply. He stumbled out of the frat house and into the late morning sunlight, armed with nothing more than his mostly-bare feet. The heat lashed his skin as flies buzzed around him; students buzzed around too, all precise and purposeful in their steps, clustered in friendly little groups. And they, somehow, all had their shoes.

Eric had a bloody sock. He hoped it didn't leave a stain.

* * *

“...As I mentioned on our first day of class, there will be one major assignment which we’ll work on over the course of the year, with periodic progress reports that will count as quiz grades.”

Cory hadn’t been expecting Mr. Feeny to teach film class, though he supposed he should have. For better or for worse, Feeny taught everything.

“We’ll begin going over the details of that assignment today. Ordinarily, I would have covered them with you all sooner, but given that there’s always a sharp decrease in my number of students after the first week of class, I decided to postpone this discussion. A mystery, why that happens….”

He had yet to decide if Feeny teaching his favorite subject was the better or the worse. Mr. Feeny himself was great, but his multiple-choice tests with twenty-six different options per question? Not so much.

Still, as mentioned, this _was_ his favorite subject, and Cory was by this point a Feeny veteran, so he tried to sit up and pay attention. Anyway, it was better than drifting off into another dream where he was forced to relive whatever had gone down with Eric last night. He’d had five of those since first period, punctuated by that clown dream that always gave him the creeps. And then there was the one where he travelled three hundred and five miles to Pittsburgh only for Topanga and all her new friends to laugh at him. And of course the one where Shawn crawled out his bedroom window and never came back.

Point being, Cory worried about a lot. He figured he should at least try to direct some of that worry toward school for once.

“So what’s the project?” he asked, as if voicing that one question would suddenly make him into an honor roll student.

From the desk adjacent to his and Shawn’s, Angela Moore spoke up. “Uh, Cory? He just said it.” Then, to Mr. Feeny, she added, “I think I’d like to do mine on the decline of academic emphasis on the arts.”

“Oh, same!” Shawn jumped in immediately. Cory felt a flare of annoyance. “I’m _really_ into...uh…” He furrowed his eyebrows for a second as he pondered his words, then finally, “...The decline of academics?”

“I can believe it,” said Angela with a wry twinkle in her eyes that reminded Cory of Mr. Feeny. He found himself torn between chuckling at her comment toward Shawn and scowling at her comment toward him. But when he saw the flustered expression on Shawn’s face, a true rarity for his friend, he couldn’t help flashing Angela a slight grin. With a roll of her eyes, she returned it.

Briefly, even as he exchanged smiles with Angela, he wondered why Shawn never got that flustered over anything _he_ said. Then he berated himself for just how weird a thought that was.

Mr. Feeny cleared his throat at the front of the room; in an instant, all eyes in the classroom were trained on him. Someone dropped their pencil, and Cory heard a string of panicked curses as whoever it was scrambled to grab it.

“As flattered as I am to see you all so fervently discussing your assignment,” began Feeny, leaning down to pick up the student’s pencil for them. “I would appreciate being included, seeing as I am the teacher.”

“Of course,” said Cory. “Sorry, sir. But, uh…?”

Feeny’s lips twitched into what Cory thought might be his version of a smile. “The assignment is a documentary, Mr. Matthews. Each of you will film one on any subject matter you wish to cover, bearing in mind that I must approve it. The final product is due on our last day of class and will serve as your final examination for the course.”

“Oh,” said Cory. Then, as Feeny’s words dawned on him, “ _Oh_. That’s––That’s actually really cool, what the heck?” He stood up abruptly from his seat, and in the corner of his eye he caught Shawn grinning at him. “ _George_ , I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“ _Mr. Matthews_ , if you would please maintain a _degree_ of professionalism,” said Mr. Feeny, glowering.

“Right. Sorry. And I’m, uh, I’m really sorry that this is my second time apologizing in one class period.” He returned to his seat and shrugged self-consciously. “I just, you know…”

“I know,” Feeny replied. His voice was surprisingly soft. “And don’t be mistaken . . . I must confess, I genuinely appreciate your excitement.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, before Mr. Feeny cleared his throat roughly.

Cory was struck with a violent urge to kill off every single person who’d ever dropped out of one of Feeny’s classes.

“Now, if everyone could return their focus to me and _keep_ it there this time, I would like to discuss this documentary in a more in-depth manner. Ms. Moore, I think you already have a promising idea on your hands, and if you’re interested, I can provide you with a number of various sources which you may find useful . . .”

The rest of the period proceeded exactly as Mr. Feeny had initially desired: they discussed the project, its scope and parameters, and brainstormed ideas together. Following Angela’s idea about art or whatever it was, several students shared their own possible starting points. One kid was considering a documentary on the evolution of sci-fi films, while another kid thought about interviewing the lunch room staff as a sort of behind the scenes look at what all went into preparing their food. At this, a student from the back of the class mentioned that his dad owned a restaurant, and everyone agreed that a documentary on owning a business would be really interesting to watch.

A lot of things would be really interesting to watch. A lot of kids had really interesting ideas.

Cory said nothing because he had nothing interesting to say. Not like everyone else. As the class period dragged on, he sunk deeper and deeper into his seat.

He had always been a behind-the-camera kind of guy, had always known his place as director and editor. He left the entertaining stuff, the actual _action_ , to other people, and it was his job to catch their strongest moments, to wave his hand and tell them they looked better in this or that lighting and to skillfully edit them into the best version of themselves. Everyone else had stories, and he simply guided them along the way until they didn’t need him anymore.

So, with that in mind, he was at quite a loss when determining his own story. What were _his_ lines? What did _Cory Matthews_ of all people have to say––about anything?

The period dragged on.

“Shawn, do I have anything to say about anything?” Cory asked once class was over. He waited expectantly for a reply.

Then he turned and saw that the chair next to him was empty. Which he really should have expected. Shawn always had something to say, and it was usually to a pretty girl.

As he left class, Cory found himself missing his own pretty girl. The words had always come easy with her.

* * *

“Angela, hey! Wait up!”

Angela turned around with a curious arch to her eyebrow. Shawn, who’d been moving perhaps a little too eagerly, eased his pace to something resembling casual once he was in her sight, pushing a hand through his hair as he came up in front of her.

“Uh. Hey, Shawn,” said Angela. It was a start.

“Hey, Angela," he returned. "I . . . I really liked your idea for the documentary. You know, about art and stuff.”

“Well, thanks. I guess it does get pretty interesting when you actually _pay attention_ to it.” She smirked in a way that let him know she wasn’t being serious, and it was easy to smirk back.

“Yeah, it does!” Shawn agreed, deliberately ignoring the jab. His ego could take a beating if it resulted in a date. “And, you know, I’d actually really like to talk to you about it more.”

Now both of Angela’s eyebrows were arched. She crossed her arms doubtfully. “You would.”

“Well, yeah . . . ” said Shawn, knowing he had to tread carefully. Angela was revealing herself to be one of those girls who was both _smart and pretty_. Without fail, those always either ended up being some of the most satisfying two weeks of his life or, on the flip side, resulted in a smoothie dumped all over his head. People usually clapped for whoever the girl was, too. Even Cory had clapped for them a few times, the traitor.

It had been a stressful enough few weeks. He wanted this to go well. “That and . . . other things.”

“Okay . . . ” Angela laughed. “Such as? And if you say ‘you and me’ please note that I will absolutely shove you into the nearest locker.”

So she didn’t like cheesy pick-up lines. Good. He got enough of those from Cory and Topanga.

“Such as . . . ” _Think fast, Hunter._ “ . . . Um, whatever it is you’re always writing in that notebook.”

Angela’s arms fell to her sides. Her smirk vanished. “You. What.”

Shawn’s alarm sirens instantly started blaring, recognizing this as a prime dump-smoothie-on-Shawn’s-head-and-completely-ruin-his-hair situation. Code red. Frantically, he mentally scoured his options. The worst part about smart girls was that it meant _he_ had to be smart, at least enough to keep them interested. It screwed with the whole Hunter branding, left him with no training to fall back on. His dad had taught him a lot about women over the years, but not much about anything else.

Eventually, he decided to double down. “Um, yeah. I, uh . . . ” He winced, witnessed the confession slip out of him as he sat back and hoped for the best. “ . . . I’ve always thought it was super cool, how you were always drawing or writing or whatever you do in class. And I . . . I like to play this game where I guess whatever it is that you’re drawing or writing or, uh, I don’t know. But guessing isn’t actually as fun as knowing, is it?” Shawn wasn’t sure he believed that last part, but he stuck with it.

Angela stared at him for a long moment. His heart thumped, and he felt all sweaty and warm.

“You know,” she said at last, words crashing on him like a waterfall. “What I write in my journal isn’t some big secret.”

“Well, I––oh,” said Shawn.

For whatever reason, he’d always assumed it was. Some big secret, that is.

As if she were setting out to surprise him even more, Angela started giggling. “Far from it, actually, which you'd know if you didn't spend so much time imagining and more time actually _asking_ me about it. In fact . . . ”

Her giggling subsided, and Shawn wasn't sure, but it felt like she was hesitating. Curiously, he stepped closer.

“ . . . if you want to find out what’s in my journal,” said Angela, “you can always come to one of our poetry club meetings.”

If Shawn had been expecting anything, it hadn’t been that.

“Thursdays at seven, so that would be tomorrow night.” Angela nodded to the wall on her left; Shawn followed her gaze and saw a poster resembling the one she’d taped up on the first day of school. “We also have cake.”

“Then I’ll be there,” said Shawn seriously. They were back in familiar territory now. Shawn Hunter could always be counted on to banter.

Angela giggled again. “I thought that might catch your attention.”

“A lot of things do,” Shawn replied, deliberately fixing his eyes on her. She didn’t blush, but that might be asking for too much at this stage.

“Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll see you around, Shawn,” she said, and off she went. Shawn purposefully averted his gaze, refusing to watch her go.

He looked back up when he heard his name again.

“And, Shawn, one more thing . . . ”

Shawn waited expectantly. Angela was now standing a few feet away; he missed when she was standing closer, when he could've tossed an arm around her if he'd wanted.

“What’s up?”

Her gaze was steady. “Look, we're always happy to have newcomers, but don't come if you’re not actually interested in talking about poetry. I take this stuff seriously.”

“Uh, duh. So do I,” Shawn answered without any hesitation.

Angela smiled, a real and breathtaking one. “Good.”

This time, he couldn’t help himself; he watched her walk away. And he tried not to beat himself up over his lie.

After all, it couldn’t be too hard to fake an interest in poetry, could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I hope you guys enjoyed the introduction of Angela! She was supposed to be in the last chapter, but then I got carried away with the Eric stuff and realized there wasn't going to be room for anything else. If you have any notes on how I've written her so far, feel free to let me know! 
> 
> On the subject of Eric, I have to say that he's kind of becoming my favorite character to write for. Something about his scenes just gets me so invested, you know? But maybe that's a weakness on my part; I need to write Cory and Shawn's scenes in such a manner that I'm equally as excited to finish their segments. 
> 
> Also, I want to apologize if this chapter was a little short. It felt like the natural ending point, but I will say that I originally intended it to be a little longer. Hopefully the next one will be! 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave a comment or kudos, and I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! 
> 
> P.S. I've decided to start plugging my recently-revived tumblr in case anyone wants to interact with me there, so if you're interested, you can catch me at @tripping-eyes-and-flooded-lungs


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